


Wind

by DragonSteel



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Orgy, Psychological Torture, Restraints, Sticky Sex, Tactile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonSteel/pseuds/DragonSteel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured by the Decepticons an Autobot foot soldier is deemed useless and thrown to the Drones for entertainment. When your existence is as ephemeral as the wind, what will you leave behind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the kinkmeme: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8352905#t8352905
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings/kinks: Orgy, noncon, being held down/restrained, humil, torture, thoughts of suicide to escape torture, sadism, being unable to see clearly, mostly tactile, some sticky, sentient beings (drones) being treated as if they're nonsentient (probably get more into that in later parts  
> That's... all the stuff I can really think of.
> 
>  
> 
> This is kind of a TF:Prime AU before they get to Earth because they're the only series I know that has a lot of drones, but I throw in elements and characters from other continuities (Mostly G1), and If my plotbunnies have their way this will end up being even more Au.
> 
> I got some of the inspiration for this from http://a-o-t-a.livejournal.com/37982.html#cutid1 and the idea of a secret drone society but otherwise this story's not very similar to that.

Gentle, curious touches slowly drew him out of recharge. For a moment he thought that they were whispers of wind flowing around his form. But then one of the touches lingered distinctly on his interfacing panel. That and the distinct chill leeching the warmth out of his systems caused him to jolt awake. He was being held down- and was surrounded by great masses of purple and black.

There had been a battle- he couldn't remember much beyond blurs of motion and color- but as pain sensors reawakened and began sending error reports he realized that he had been badly damaged, and likely had been knocked offline from his injuries. The reports warned of significant energon loss and multiple ruptures in his armor plating. As he sorted through the various reports he began to slowly interpret the vibrations his audials were detecting. It was- laughing?

"Pathetic little Autobot."

One of the blurs shifted to tower over him and the shadows crouched next to him. His optics weren't focusing properly; it was possible some wiring had been knocked loose, and he quickly set his optics to the top of the repair queue. Being a frontliner his other sensors were not particularly specialized and could not tell him much more about his surroundings other than the fact that he was in a large room with one nearby spark signature. It didn't take a genius to realize that he had been captured.

The voice spoke again, "You're not important, you're some no name foot soldier. They're not going to trade for you; they're not even going to notice you're gone!"

Denials sprung to his lips, but he swallowed them back with some difficulty. In what training there had been time to give they had all had it drummed into them not to aggravate the enemy if captured. All it would do is cause him more pain, and besides, it was true. He was no brilliant leader or scientist, all he did was follow orders and try to stay alive.

"Soundwave said you weren't even worth interrogating," he could hear the sneer on the mech's face, "All you're good for now is… entertainment."

It took a few seconds, and the memory of those invasive touches which had since withdrawn somewhat, for the implications in those words to penetrate his pain filled circuitry. When they did panic gained control of him and he thrashed mindlessly. The touches returned, this time harsh, unyielding grips which pinned him to the floor. He could not stop the whimper which escaped and only barely managed to not cry out for Primus' mercy.

They all knew what faced a prisoner of the Decepticons and fact was in some con's hands simple injury and pain was the least of your worries. There were whispers, away from officer's audials, of prisoners reprogrammed, driven mad, or raped to death.

"Of course, stupid, ugly, thing that you are no _real_ Decepticon would touch you. You might as well be a drone for all the talent and intelligence you need as foot soldier. You're not even a good foot soldier, got left behind and caught. So," He could hear the grin as it stretched across the mech's mouth, "why don't you stay here among your own kind? A… present, as it were, for our hard working soldiers. I'm sure these drones will make you enjoy the little time you have left." With his laughter still echoing off the ceiling the Decepticon's retreating footsteps were cut off by a closing door. His readouts helpfully informed him that his was now the only spark signature in the room.

Drones? He was being given to drones? Mindless machines with no spark, created to be grunts that did not fear. Monsters whose only purpose was to kill.

There had been much debate over them during the Golden Age, whether or not they counted as sentient beings, and whether they took work away from real mechs. Laws were passed and drones were restricted to the most menial or mind numbing of tasks, most of them cleaning drones or space faring shuttles that would be cut off from contact for months, even years, with nothing but their calculations and radiation from the stars to keep them company.

Drone soldiers, those were the mark of the Decepticons. In the beginning they had not the mechs for an army to take on all of Cybertron and beyond, and so they had broken taboo and written law by creating long production lines of identical frames, filled with most of the same programming as an adult mech, but their chests were hollow things, which never saw the light of a spark.

The Autobots sometimes resorted to drone soldiers as well, but many threatened mutiny when Prowl, the Autobot Chief Tactical Officer, had suggested integrating them into the army on a permanent basis. Among the clamor of the many strident objections raised Optimus Prime had refused and ordered that drones only be used as a last resort. Of course, in many Autobot bases old cleaning drones still went about their work like nothing had changed since they had been first brought online vorns and vorns earlier.

The… the drones were still gripping him tightly though he had long since stopped resisting. Drones had not the imagination for torture; if not painless, at least his death would be quick. A Decepticon torturer could make his dying body linger on for days, but the drones would likely kill him, accidentally or on purpose, soon enough.

One of the hands on his left thigh shifted, and another whimper escaped him when it pressed against one of his wounds. On rote his repair systems and sensors informed him that his front had been showered with shrapnel and that a large metal rod of some sort had pierced his leg there and that the drone had pushed it further into his leg. At his whimper, the drone lifted his hand off his thigh. With a rising sense of futility he ordered his repair system to seal any fresh energon leaks, but top repair prioritization remained with his optical sensors.

The hand returned, brushing over where the metal pierced his armor. A monotone voice spoke, "It's broken." He shuddered at the sound; he hated it when drones spoke. The ability to use or create a language was seen as one of the first indicators of sentience.

"Follow orders. Fight, refuel, fix what's broken." A series of voices recited as one. Before he could wonder what that meant, a strangled shriek emitted from his vocalizer when the large shard of metal was abruptly pulled out. With surprising efficiency his ruptured energon and coolant lines were patched and a sheet of metal soldered over the gaping hole in his leg armor. There were still broken and twisted wires, bent and crushed metal plating, but that would evidently be left up to his repair nanites to fix.

And so it continued, firm hands digging out the shrapnel littering his frame, searing pain as sensors were crushed, released or at times ripped through. The drones did not bother turning off his pain receptors. Even in the most rushed field medical procedures a medic would automatically turn off pain receptors, not only out of compassion, but so that the patient would not thrash and cry out like he was currently doing.

Was this some sort of sick torture? Leaving him half repaired and in agony, waiting for a self repair that would take weeks to finish, even if he got enough energon or survived this day. The drones were evidently more creative than he had been previously led to believe.

The fiery anguish slowly died down into a burning ache and he became aware of the caresses smoothing over his intact plating in addition to the harsh grips still holding him down.

Primus, how many of these things were here?

As if in response to his unspoken question the clanking of metal against metal, the rattling of fans and the low thud of more and more footsteps approaching echoed across the room.

"No…" he moaned, "No…"

"An Autobot."

"No. A drone."

"It's a new frame type?"The monotone voice rose slightly to make it a question.

"An Autobot drone."

He moaned a wordless denial. There was a pause, and the footsteps stopped, there was a creaking and shuffling sound and then new hands joined the ones touching him. One patted his head, then shifted down to cup his cheek.

"A drone." There was a strange tone in its voice, he couldn't understand. Being called a drone was a horrible insult; including just now, he could count the number of times he had been called one on one hand. Why did they think he was a drone? That Decepticon did say something about him being like a drone, did they believe that he actually was one?

"Not a drone," he choked out. If he was going to die in the agony of torture he would die knowing he was an Autobot and a mech whose spark had burned brightly, who had chosen the life behind him, even if he had not always made the correct decisions, he was no drone! Not an empty construct made to do other's biddings. Not a cold, unnatural, Primus damned abomination that felt nothing, and knew nothing beyond what it was programmed.

One of the dark blurs leaned towards his face, "No lies, no shame," it whispered. He could feel the air moved by its fans and brushing over his cheeks. Distracted from the pain he stared up, still struggling to focus his optics. His self repair reported that there had indeed been wires knocked loose in his cranial processor, likely from a blast of some kind, but the damage could be corrected by his nanites in approximately 2 breems.

"No lies, no shame," the rest of the drones echoed and he shuddered. Just when he thought they couldn't get any creepier.

The hands gently rubbed over his frame, carefully edging around the rough plating covering the worst of his injuries, fingering dents and stroking scratches, delicately brushing over cracks and edges that had been torn and melted. It stun, but the pain was no worse than the aching burn of his sensors as they cried over sparking wires and gaps in his armor haphazardly covered.

One of the wires to his optics was reconnected and the colors abruptly brightened. He shuttered his optics in surprise; he had not realized that they had been dimmed. The red visors hovering over him blazed, metal gleamed blue-gray, shadows and dark plating seeped black and gray, and purples seemed to shine.

Lines and shapes were still blurred and fuzzy. The bright colors bled into each other but he could begin to count the red slashes misting over dark triangular faceplates. 1 visor, 2 3, 4- his left leg was eased up, eager hands competing for space on the less damaged plating beneath. 5, 6, 7 visors- fingers stroked the wires peaking out on the back of his knee- 8, 9- they tugged gently on the wires, isolating them one by one. Rubbing them, seeking out tubing hidden deeper inside the gap between his shin and thigh plating. 10, 11, 12- he struggled to pull his damaged leg away from the tickling, teasing strokes. The touches became firmer, less ticklish and more- he gasped as they found a coolant line. It was a major hose leading from his main pump in his stomach all the way down to his feet. It was a miracle of Primus that it had remained undamaged. If they tore it- he reflexively tried to flinch away, the movement caused the fingers to tug on their captured wires and he whimpered in mingled fear and almost pain at the harsh pulling sending sensors tingling all up and down his leg.

"Just- just do it," he gasped

There was a slight pause, and then the drones deliberately gave a few gentle tugs. His leg jerked and he gasped at the phantom sensations rushing up and down his leg. Two fingers lightly squeezed the coolant line and he became highly aware of the liquid pumping through, pounding and pressing back against the hold constricting it. The fingers lightened their hold slightly, brushing as far as they could reach against the pulsing line.

The drones above his other leg shifted and that one was lifted as well. With his blurry vision he lost track of the ones he had counted as they shifted and moved in even closer. There were more than 12 of them- maybe 16?

Metal scraped as they pressed against each other and against him. Fans whirled, swirling air to dart in and out of their bodies. Fingers rubbed over his plating, his transformations seams, around his headlights and delicate neck cabling, in between his fingers and legs and exposed wires, still delicately avoiding their crude patches.

His sensors, still reeling and aching from remembered pain and present pain began to focus on the touches and fingers and air blowing over him. It felt… good. He had once had a lover that had enjoyed tying him up and then bringing him to overload. He hadn't really understood it, but it had been enjoyable enough and now he felt strangely reminded of it. Of course, this situation was really nothing like that and he deleted the thought, only to jerk in surprise at a load groan to his right, around his chestplates. Instinctively he turned his head to look. Two black and purple mech-like shapes were eagerly rubbing against each other. One of them had a hand wrapped around his upper arm and the other had claimed a spot on his chest, rubbing a circle round and round with a few fingers.

Shuddering in disgust and increased fear and unease he glanced around at the other drones. Precise movements were difficult to make out, but a mech would have to be blinder than he not to be able to see that they were touching each other as much as he, and the way they pressed into these touches and the way their vents pushed out air in quiet sighs, the way their visors flickered and dimmed and brightened indicated that they were enjoying this all very much.

He began to tremble as images and scenarios flashed through his processor. He would be held down as they took him one by one, port covers ripped open, alien presences invading his body. He would die of exhaustion or his injuries or- oh Primus, it hadn't ever occurred to him before that drones could even interface.

Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up as he marveled at the manufacturer who would go so far in creating a drone's mech-like frame. Hook approved of the obsessive attention to detail no doubt.

Being aware of the possibility of torture and rape for information was one thing, being faced with it was another, and as he was discovering, being raped and tortured for mere entertainment was far worse. He knew Autobots that bragged that they could withstand any torture that the Decepticons could deal out. Many more swore that they would die before giving anything away. The Special Ops mechs never said such things, and when the grunts were briefly lectured on torture the Head of the Special Ops had calmly stated, with a smile, that every sentient being had a breaking point. He had advised that those bots with vital information have a self destruct sequence on standby, and for all others to simply avoid aggravating their captors. Now he almost wished that he had been ranked high enough to warrant the resources for a self destruct device.

Fear of death was nothing new. Every Autobot faced down that fear whenever they engaged in battle, when they went on patrol and when they went into recharge. A Decepticon bomb could go off, a sneak could ensue, and there was always the fear of a spy haunting recharge dreams.

Many Autobots no longer bothered praying that the war would end or that they would survive to see its end but almost all prayed that when their time came, it would come swiftly, with as little pain as possible. What Primus must think of them all, waiting outside the medbay doors begging for friends and comrades screaming inside to be allowed to rejoin Him in the Well of Allsparks.

Now he faced lingering, terrible death. Not death in the heat of battle, not in the medbay as he waited for a medic that would come too late, not even dying screaming out, forgotten on a battlefield as the fighting moved on without him. No, his death would be in the midst of pain and humiliation, providing 'entertainment' for his enemies. Not a death for the glory of his cause, and not for the sake of a friend (now, at the end of it all, he would call any and all Autobots 'friend') but for the sake of sadistic entertainment at the hands of mere drones, mere pieces of metal with energon pumped through to give a semblance of life.

He did not consider himself a particularly proud bot, but he too had once sworn to die before giving in to a Decepticon, before begging for mercy that would not come and the thought that he would be forced to break that oath burned at the edges of his wires. His treacherous logic center pointed out that drones, idiot puppets that they were, were not truly Decpticons, but constructs. Tools used by the Decepticons, and that begging for them to grant a quicker death was not the same as giving in to a 'true' Decepticon. Only the thought that they were being watched by those 'true Decepticons' kept his mouth closed.

Still, his processor dwelt on the words, as the hands- always those dreaded hands- lifted his head, his shoulders, pushed him into a sitting position, legs still lifted and caressed. The words bubbled up from his chest like energon pooling out from a shredded cable. He had seen mechs die this way, energon spilling out of their mouths as they choked and whimpered. The words caught in his throat, dwelling there as his back plating was thoroughly explored. He was lifted, set in the lap of a squirming drone, pressed close to other, identical, writhing drones. The words spilled into his mouth, his tongue writhing with the effort of pushing them back, still they pushed forward. A whimper escaped his lips as they trembled.

Electricity sparked and flowed across the closely intertwined mechs, rushing through metal plating and wires and sensors and he shuddered under the onslaught of pleasure. Pleasure both mercifully distracting him from those tempting words and horrifically adding to the mounting sensations clogging his processor. His sensors sent conflicting messages, first pain, then pleasure, ghost sensations assaulted him as sneaky drone fingers found more wires to tug and rub. The electricity was a sure sign that they were close to overload, but they had yet to do more than finger his interfacing panel. His interfacing components tingled in both dread and slowly growing unwanted pleasurable anticipation. His fans had already been whirling from the strain his systems were under from both his injuries and his fear, but as another wave of electricity washed over the entangled bodies they twirled faster from the added strain of pleasure. Again he whimpered, this time in mortification.

Another wire was reconnected between his optics, leading into his main processor. Lines sharpened until they could cut, colors were still somewhat muddy, but his eyesight was near restored. All around him dark bodies twisted and curled, writhed and squirmed, rubbed and stroked.

A thigh pushed between his legs, rocking against the panel protecting his interfacing equipment. The drones were moaning and groaning and he reluctantly added his own moan to the growing noise. It was becoming more and more difficult to think as pleasure replaced pain, his sensors assuring his processor that they knew this sensation, it was a good sensation, an important sensation. He reluctantly, desperately, remained focused enough to override his panel as it began to open against the pressure and sensations.

The drones clutched at him, releasing more currents of electricity in their excitement. The sparks danced between thighs and his panel automatically snapped open from the stimulation. His spike extended, crackling with charge, and his valve cycled in on the tingling, frustrating sensations caused by the sparks dancing down it. The leg pressed between his rubbed and scraped against his spike and overwhelmed he helplessly began to thrust, adding to the electricity pulsing through the drone under him. Hot plating pushed against him from all sides, shifting and arching mech frames becoming an interlocking conduit of pulsing sparks and energy. He felt as if he was caught in the middle of an electrical storm as it raced over and under his armor plating. The dim lights overhead flickered wildly as the current raced across the walls, floor, and ceiling to reach them. His recovering optics struggled to compensate for the bright flashing interspersed with inky black shadows, leading to spotty afterimages and the drones' constant movements blurred further until they became mere flashes of color and touches.

His main processor and vital components were carefully protected from overcharge with thick insulation, but as the electricity raced over his entire body it found gaps and connecting wires and many vital systems in his torso stuttered and whirred as the charge increased and increased. His sensors wailed, his processor wailed and his vocals wailed as the overpowering sensations multiplied on and on until he began to feel like his processor was in danger of overheating. He convulsed helplessly, pushing and shuddering against the metal bodies surrounding him until the electricity/pleasure reached its peak.

The contorted, writhing forms held impossibly still for a single astrosecond, electricity still racing and arcing between the dark figures, illuminating an eerie tableau of identical statues, until they collapsed into a scrapheap of parts and flickering visors.

Sparks traveled and dispersed as they reached the cold metal floor below and raced away. One of the few lights overhead had burned out, leaving more shadows stretching over the floor.

 

 


End file.
